Brown Leaf
by Zira
Summary: A Tristan centered fic - a in depth look into his character. Well, a try anyway. Possibly Trory.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Well, as much as I would like to be a writer, I'm not - my fic isn't worth anything anyway. Of course, I'm open to any form of payments that you see fit.  
  
Rating: R. For mature content  
  
Pairings: Can be classified as a Trory. Not sure if that's the future of this story though. Perhaps. There is a slim chance.  
  
Authors Note: My very first fic - be kind. Any feed back would be greatly appreciated.  
  
Tristan lay there, his eyes staring into nothing. He twisted his head to the left, his focus reading 4:30 on the digital clock. He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, his face muffled in the downy pillow. The room rang with silence, not even his breath could be heard. He felt bound in captivity by his cologne that permeated his room, the smells of him, the shadows. Kicking back the covers he wandered over to the large, window seat and yanked up the latch. The windows swung open by an invisible energy, the icy wind hitting him like a sledgehammer. Tristan didn't even flinch. He sat, his body outlined in all the black by the moonlight, his bare chest freezing. He racked his mind, searching himself for evidence of who he was. What made him tick. What made him Tristan DuGrey.  
  
His search was fruitless. He found nothing to be proud of, he was a trophy. A shiny, hollow, artificial mold of a person, one that his parents birthed, by accident of course. He frowned, a deep frown, the pitted lines in his forehead digging deeper. Why was I born to this life, he cried painfully, his plea resounding inside his head. The money, the status, the popularity. He didn't want it. Who wants it when the very thing that a person needs is love? To be accepted? To know who you are when you wake up in the morning. To have a purpose. To know that a person, even if it's just one would miss you if you weren't there.  
  
A gust of wind fluttered a green leaf through the window, landing on his artistic hands. He grasped it with now numb fingers, tracing the characteristics of the leaf. So green. It looked so alive it hurt. He tossed it away in disgust, repelling it's vibrancy.  
  
Tristan's stared out the window into the inky night. Everything out there was alive, reveling in every breath it took. Only he wished that he didn't have to breathe anymore. His blue, glazed eyes looked up at the moon. The large white circle loomed back upon his head. He shuddered.  
  
He slid off the seat and pushed the window closed, wanting to escape his jealousy of the living world. His smell immediately swarmed to his nostrils, suffocating him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run, but his mouth was clamped shut, his legs weighed like stone. He dropped his head in defeat, his eyes lighting on a brown, dried leaf. He picked it up with reverent fingers, it felt light, hollow, dead. Tristan walked over to his bed, placing it on the nightstand. He slid under the covers, the clock flashed 5:40am. Tristan lay there, his eyes, once again, staring at nothing. In two more hours, his mother would burst into his room, dressed for business, the lines concealed by layers of make-up, the red pout painted on, her smile, or frown, depending, stuck on her face. He shivered at the coldness of every expression she wore till it was threadbare. Pulling the covers higher, until the locks of the hair was only showing, he slipped into the blissful sleep.  
  
Mrs DuGrey stepped up the stairs, her skirt tight, her heels sharp, her jacket perfect. Holding a mug of strong black coffee in her hand, she sipped from it, her face expressionless. Her hands, colored by artificial light, grasped the door handle, abruptly gaining access to her only son's room. She hated doing this, stepping into the unknown territory, and waking the bear from hibernation. But she must spend some time, fulfilling her duties as a mother. She knew that some mothers woke their offspring with breakfast, but she wasn't going to go that far. She had far more important things to do. Only she didn't realize that her son needed more than a quick wake-up every morning for him to look upon her as a mother.  
  
She walked over to the bed, pausing to look the face of the slumbering one. She almost smiled. But it only lasted a split second. She yanked back the covers and snapped  
  
"Tristan, 7:30, school" She then marched over to the window, ruthlessly opening the window, flooding the room with light.  
  
The boy stirred in his large bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He opened them, surprised to see his mother standing at the window, looking out at the fresh morning. Usually she stormed in and stormed out, leaving a wake of perfume behind her.  
  
"Mom?" she sat down on the edge of the bed precariously. Tristan sat up on his elbows and stared at the woman before him. For one whom he had lived with for the majority of his life, he barely knew her. She looked indefinitely uncomfortable, her toes tapping.  
  
"Is there something you wanted?" Tristan winced at the coldness of his words. It didn't mean to come out like that. Her head snapped up, her eyes darting on and off his face. Her body language was screaming silently just how much she loathed being in his room. Near me, he thought ruefully.  
  
"Mom, you don't have to sit here, I'm awake now. Thanks" Tristan mumbled disjointedly. His mother jumped from the bed like she had been shocked, towering over him. Inside he was crying for her to stay a while, talk to him. But he managed a smile, releasing a bird from the cage that it was held captive. She looked at him, regretting that she had jumped up so quickly, wanting to say something, but no words seemed appropriate.  
  
"Your hair needs cutting" she started lamely, he didn't respond. "Well, I won't keep you, school starts in 40 minutes, so." she turned on her heel and walked out of the room, the smell of coffee and perfume mingling behind her. He groaned once she had left, feeling high-strung. He swung his feet to the side, sitting up. He noticed the brown leaf he had placed on the nightstand on the floor, blown there by the morning breeze. It lay there, crushed in tiny pieces, crumbled by his mothers all too hasty foot. He sighed and scooped up the pieces, and wandered over to the window and threw them out, watching the wind pick them up with long, toying fingers and sweep them away.  
  
A.N: Wow. That was a short-ie. It should get longer. 


	2. Chapter Two: A Smile

Disclaimer: See first chapter.  
  
Author's Note: A bit longer, and I foresee this fic to be slow moving. As usual, feedback is greatly appreciated. I'm trying to avoid clichés.  
  
Tristan guided his Jag smoothly into the Chilton parking lot, reserved specifically for the students. He flicked the keys and the machine's purr seeped out slowly, leaving him in silence. He checked his expensive designer wristwatch.8:05 am. Should I get out and be smothered in the mobs of so-called friends and the admiring glances of girls? Or should I hide out here longer?  
  
He released a long sigh and adjusted his collar. Go out and face the procrastinating hordes, I guess. Scooping his books under his arm, he slid out of the car, shutting the door with a muted click. Tristan squinted in the sunlight, his eyes struggling to adjust to the change of light.  
  
A firm hand gripped his arm. Tristan wasn't surprised.  
  
"DuGrey! Looking a little pasty I see? Someone keep you inside all weekend eh?" Tristan inwardly groaned, recognizing the voice. Brad Lance. One of his 'friends' if he dared to say. A loud mouthed gossip, ready to spread the latest scandal like a virus, a particular favorite in the 'Golden Circle' at school. But he smiled a smile, laughed and said something like "Wouldn't you like to know"  
  
Tristan nodded politely to the female student clinging to Brad's arm and stepped the other direction. His feet crunched on the dewy grass and then on the gravel footpaths. His eyes flitted over groups, different people huddled in circles animatedly discussing hairstyles and cars, depending on the sex. And then he saw her. Sitting on the bench absorbed in a Biology book oblivious of the melee going on around her. Something clicked in his mind. Oh no! Biology!  
  
He stopped, trying to think of an excuse. He shrugged his shoulders, he couldn't possibly lie to her. All she had to do was look into his eyes and read the truth like one would read a novel. He sat down next to her on the bench. She didn't make any move, her eyes were on the text book.  
  
"What time is it?" she spoke for the first time.  
  
"Uh, 8:10" he replied guiltily.  
  
"And what time were you supposed to be here?" she still didn't move.  
  
"Mmm, a quarter to eight."  
  
"And why were you supposed to be here at a quarter to eight, Tristan?" her tone was even. He winced. She was pulling out his torture.  
  
"Well, we were going to write up our plan for out Biology prac." Silence.  
  
"I was here at a quarter to eight, where were you?  
  
"I forgot.but we can do it this afternoon, let's say, at my house?" he couldn't help but slip that in. Her head swiveled towards him, bringing her blue eyes in contact with his.  
  
"Unfortunately for you, that won't happen due to the fact that our prac is in 5 minutes."  
  
Tristan swallowed. "Look, Rory, I'm really sorry but." his words were cut off as she hefted the heavy volume and cracked it down on his shoulder.  
  
"Hey! Ow!" Tristan rubbed his shoulder. "I'll make some excuse to the teacher, she favors me already." Rory sighed and pulled a sheet from the Biology book, and handed it to Tristan. He took it and saw pages full with the write up for the prac assignment. She sat there, alone, writing the prac out without complaint. A warm flush suffused over his cheeks.  
  
She rose and walked off, making her way to Biology. He stared at the paper for a few more seconds then followed her steps. He caught up with her in 2 long strides.  
  
"Sorry, I totally forgot that today we had the prac and that we were meeting earlier.." she cut him off.  
  
"Y'know, if I was Paris, your head would be the centerpiece on her fireplace by now." He smiled wryly, thinking of Paris's ferocious determination to graduate as Valedictorian, regardless of how many people she had to stomp on to get there.  
  
He tried again. "Rory, I really am sorry, I'll make it up to you.you'll enjoy it, I promise" he leered, leaning into her.  
  
"Sure you can, you can dissect the frog by yourself" she retorted as they climbed the stairs.  
  
"Aww c'mon, I'll save you the intestines" he joked, feeling relief in knowing that she had forgiven him.  
  
******  
  
Rory sat on a stool at her station, watching Tristan carefully, monitoring his every move.  
  
"Watch out Tristan, she bites" Madeline waltzed past, dragging her hand across his back, smiling coyly. Rory ignored the comment and tuned her attention back to the instruction sheet.  
  
"Tristan make a incision above the left leg.Tristan?" But Tristan was gone, his mind elsewhere. He was staring at the scalpel, shifting in the light, watching it wink and flash at him. It was so sharp, two cuts placed strategically and deeply enough and he could leave all this. Forget graduation, forget the expectations, and forget the pain of not being loved. He felt this insatiable desire to slice his skin, watch the red lifeline ooze and puddle on the floor, smear it across his chest, marking himself with an inescapable fate.  
  
"Tristan?" He felt a small hand on his sleeve.  
  
"Huh? Sorry, what were you saying?" He said vaguely.  
  
"Make a incision above the left leg.are you okay?" Rory studied his pale face. "You really spaced there for a moment"  
  
"Sure, left leg, right?" he held the scalpel poised.  
  
"Left leg" Rory confirmed.  
  
She sat back, and watched Tristan slice and cut in perfection. They'd become awkward friends, an unseen pact between them. Ever since the kiss, they'd come to an understanding. He still flirted with her, but she was so pickled in it, she could shrug it off with a loathing remark, their words sparring. It was a well played game on both sides, it brought security, a ritual that they'd both miss in its absence.  
  
Rory knew that Tristan was mostly show, a expectation placed on him before he was born was the cause of that. But the look behind his eyes was different. The look of a desperate person, losing their battle against an unseen force. She bit her nail, wanting to ask him, but the time and place prevented her.  
  
"What's next?" He turned and asked her.  
  
"That's it, we're done, all we gotta do is draw a diagram" Rory smiled sincerely. Her smile said more important things than she could imagine. He stopped in surprise, and stared at her, a smile slowly forming at the corners of his mouth. Picking up a pencil, he sat down and drew, enjoying her companionship and the comfortable silence.  
  
Rory walked to her locker, thanking the good Lord that the day was over. It was all becoming too much. Far too much. What a crap day. She dropped her bag to her feet with a thump, twisting the dial to her combination. She tugged at the handle, her frustration of her day making itself known. A poster was stuck on her locker, in garish blue and red writing it scrawled "Hartford's Annual Carnival" She ripped it off, aggravated and thumped the door, trying to loosen the mechanism inside with no success.  
  
Tristan came up behind her and stood there, arms folded and in a reprimanding tone he said "Mary, you should treat school property with more respect"  
  
"Yeah, well, the school should be able to afford lockers that actually work, they ask enough in fees." She smacked it again her anger. The locker door remained closed, a steely foe, a worthy enemy. Tristan made a 'tsk tsk tsk' sound. Rory turned.  
  
"Stop enjoying my misery and open my locker" she poked a pointed finger in his chest.  
  
"Ooh, a angry Mary.look out for the whip." He caught her eye. "If you insist" he leaned over and the locker opened in an instant. How does he do that, she moaned to herself.  
  
Tristan rested against the locker next to hers and watched her sort her books, dumping some in her bag and discard others. He cleared his throat. "I came by to see if you were going to be attending the Carnival this Saturday?" She remained focused on her locker.  
  
"Yes, and like any good Chilton student, I volunteered to man a cake stall, but I don't think that you have volunteered, right?" Rory's doubt showed plainly in her words.  
  
"A cake stall hey?" He ignored her question.  
  
"Yes a cake stall." Rory retorted and closed the locker with a slam. "Now if you don't mind, I have to go catch my bus"  
  
"See you there Rory" he called to her retreating back.  
  
"Oh, I'm pretty sure you'll see me before then. Stalker." She hissed teasingly, and waved a hand over her head, as the crowd swallowed her whole 


	3. Chapter Three: Speeding Away

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I've been sitting, either at my desk, or at the computer, trying to determine which way I should take this. I can go either way really. Thanks for all the reviews that you guys have taken the time to write, I really appreciate them. Especially one individual (Heh, you know who you are!)  
  
Rory sat on the bus, the heater pumping out deliciously warm air, addictive as a sleeping drug. Her eyelids felt heavy, her head foggy. She leaned her forehead on the cool windowpane, and stared out of the bus, watching the scenery flash by, struggling to keep awake. The bus lurched to a stop and people arose from their seats. Rory blinked at the view outside the transparent glass and her mind clicked. Jumping from her seat she grabbed her bag and hastily followed everyone else off the bus.  
  
Lorelai Gilmore sat on the seat in front of the bus, watching people of all ages file off the bus, the icy wind slicing through their coats. She sat, holding her bag on her lap, impatiently twisting the straps. Rory finally stumbled off, her mouth stretched into a wide yawn.  
  
"Oh come on woman! It's freezing out here! And you just dawdle off the bus!"  
  
"Mom? What are you doing here?" Rory managed, between yawns.  
  
"Hey careful, if your mouth gets any wider, you'll be able to swallow my head whole, large as it is." Lorelai put her arm around her chums' shoulder. "Michel was driving me insane today." She continued "even more so today than any other day, cold weather does that to him, so does hot weather, snow too. Anyway, he was grumbling on about how bad the heating was in the inn, and I just couldn't help but imagine how scrummy he'd look roasting on a spit in the fire. A red apple in his mouth too. So I decided that I should get out of there early, see a fresh face, and whine to her."  
  
"Hmm, I just had this picture of Michel naked, roasting" Rory snorted, directing her mother's steps to Luke's.  
  
"Disgusting child! Your literature teacher encourages you to use your imagination too much. Which reminds me, how was all perfect Chilton today?" Lorelai opened the diner door, feeling a wave of warm air awash with smells of fries and coffee brush over them.  
  
"Ugh. I hate her! She drives me crazy! And she doesn't even have to say anything half the time, just the looks and the painful knowledge that she scored better in her British History assignment than I did."  
  
Lorelai looked at her only daughter sympathetically, distinctly knowing what she was talking about  
  
"Naturally, Paris got an A, and I got a B+." Rory sat down at a table, close to the window.  
  
"A B+? Babe, that is great! I never got a B+ in British History when I was in high school"  
  
"Did you even do British History?"  
  
"Weee-eelll, no, but I know that if I did, I'd get C's" she smiled cheerfully, trying to pull Rory out of the rut.  
  
The owner of the diner came to their table, his worn cap perched on his head.  
  
"Luke, did you ever get a B+ in British History when you were in high school?" Lorelai pounced on the man with the coffeepot.  
  
"I'll bet he didn't take British History either" Rory remarked to her mother.  
  
"Actually I did take British History, and I am proud to say that I got straight A's in that subject" Luke announced proudly, until he saw Lorelai's face. Wrong answer Luke. He swallowed and glanced at Rory's downcast expression.  
  
"I'll just get your usual, right?" Luke wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Lorelai smiled tightly. He poured some steaming coffee into their mugs, frantically trying to amend. He opened his mouth to say something to Rory, but decided against it, instead, her retreated like a dog with it's tail between its legs back behind the counter.  
  
Once he was out of earshot, Rory looked at her mother pointedly. "See? Even Luke scored better than me in British History" Lorelai drummed her fingers on the tabletop.  
  
"He cheated"  
  
"Sure sure." Rory quipped sarcastically. "Face it, I suck. Why do I even bother? I'm never going to be good enough. Imagine what Harvard will be like? A kezillion times worse! What if I have to board with a Paris?" Rory moaned, slumping her head on the table.  
  
"Rory, that's not true. You are good enough. Just the very fact that you attend that hell everyday, surrounded by snobs who pay obscene amounts of money redecorating to fit mood swings, and who condescend to you. And for you to come home with B+'s and A's should tell you that you are good enough. And if you push yourself too hard, you're going to burn out. And I don't want a pale imitation of a daughter because then I wouldn't have anyone to complain loudly to.and to share my addiction of coffee with. And we all know what I'll be like if that happens. Luke would cop it all and he'd ban me from his diner forever, equaling in no good coffee, which leads to moods. Thus, the vicious cycle begins."  
  
"I don't think so. For a start, Luke's too in love with you to ban you. He'd miss you too much" Rory grinned mischievously. Lorelai continued to tap, trying to think of another topic.  
  
"Ooh, how did you and your science partner go in the dissection today? The frog didn't make any inappropriate gestures now did it? I remember a frog that I had to dissect once." Lorelai giggled, remembering the memory.  
  
Rory ignored her mother's rambling.  
  
"Fine. Apart from the fact that my science partner forgot that we were supposed to meet early to write up the prac, so I had to do it all by myself" "Did you apply some sort of punishment? Cos our house needs a really good cleaning. A really good cleaning actually. I found a whole tribe of dust bunnies under my bed the other day. I was petrified that they were going to attack me."  
  
"Yes, I told him that he had to dissect it all by himself."  
  
"Oh, a male hey? And does Mr. Mysterious have a name?"  
  
"Tristan"  
  
"As in Tristan, the blonde bad boy, who persists in calling you Mary?"  
  
"The one and the same"  
  
Lorelai picked up the coffee, emptying the cup.  
  
"And how is Tristan? Irritating and egotistical as usual?"  
  
"Not really." Rory shook her head "Tristan and I have a weird relationship. We aren't foes, but I don't know if friends are the right word. We still bicker, but we've always done that. And we both know that half the things we say we don't mean." Rory remembered the look in his eyes. "Sometimes I feel quite sorry for him" she said quietly.  
  
"Rory! This is Tristan! The guy who has made your life hell, along with Paris, well, Paris still is a frump, but you're telling me that you feel sorry for him? Do you have a fever?" Lorelai dropped her cup and felt her forehead. Rory swatted her hands away.  
  
"No, seriously Mom. I always get this feeling that the Tristan that everyone sees is not who he really is. And you haven't seen the look in his eyes. His eyes look empty, like he's missing out on something. It must be horrible to be placed on a shelf, being trapped by your family's name." Rory sighed, sipping her coffee. "I don't have that problem, obviously, considering that you as a Gilmore, created a scandalous sensation and I never grew up in Hartford's highest society.."  
  
"Thank God," Lorelai interjected, wincing from the past.  
  
Luke placed two plates on the table, his servings generous. He stood there, fiddling with the tea towel swung casually over his shoulder.  
  
"Is there anything else I can get you?" he asked, hopefully.  
  
"Coffee" the two girls held their now empty cups, their eyes as large as the hollows in their mugs. Luke felt slightly uncomfortable, two sets of blue orbs staring at him.  
  
"Right, why did I even ask?" He poured the steaming black liquid, the beverage pooling in the bottom. They flashed two smiles of appreciation and he moved onto he next table. Lorelai picked up a French fry and promptly dunked it in ketchup. She chomped off half of it, her face twisted in a grimace.  
  
"Ugh. Too much ketchup. Why is it that I can never get a balance?" Lorelai wiped her mouth with a napkin. "So you were saying?"  
  
"Oh, yes, Tristan." Rory picked at her burger. She pulled some tomato from the mound, nibbling on it thoughtfully.  
  
"It's like he wears a mask, a bad boy playa, but inside he's a little boy, desperately wanting the wind to blow his sails." Lorelai didn't say anything. Rory looked at her.  
  
"Maybe I'm reading too much into this." She said before taking a huge bite from her burger.  
  
"Maybe, maybe not" Lorelai scratched her head, watching Rory carefully.  
  
"Sounds like Tristan isn't the bad boy that you once painted."  
  
Rory sat there, shifting the leftovers of her fries around the plate.  
  
******  
  
Tristan parked his car in the open garage, stone paths leading from it to the large, grey house. Dignified, it sat, erect, an architectural wonder, but a prison for the driver. He slammed the door and walked slowly to the main entrance, mounting the stairs reluctantly. Alfred, the family butler, swung open the heavy oak door before he got within 6 ft of the door.  
  
"Welcome home, Master DuGrey" Alfred swept his arm with a wide arc. Tristan dropped his keys on the table, and looking up he saw himself in the guilt- covered mirror. He turned away, wanting to evade himself.  
  
"Is there anything I can get you sir?" Alfred questioned, accommodating as usual; his slight English accent came fluidly from his mouth.  
  
"No, Alfred, I'm fine" Tristan lied, rubbing his forehead. He made his way across the foyer to the wide stairs, his feet echoing in the vast amounts of marbled space, his sound reverberating, swinging back to haunt him.  
  
A chill traveled down his spine, the emptiness of the house overcoming him. The place he grew up in was decked out in the latest décor, every chair and tablecloth placed in the exact spot. Every vase of flowers off set the coloring or the supposed feel of the room. But what feeling? It was "Homemaker's Paradise", the house always in order, with 4 servants working to remove every trace of dust, every finger smear on the windows. The smells from the kitchen wafted out as he climbed the stairs, his legs weights. He stomach churned at the smell of another delicacy that his mother had ordered to be prepared by the time that she returned in the evening.  
  
He walked the gauntlet of icy stares, pictures and portraits of long dead ancestors lined the wall of the stairs, their eyes boring into his soul. Tristan pushed open his bedroom door, his retreat in perfect order. During the day a maid had come in, picked up the clothes that he had tossed there in his haste this morning, left folded neatly on his bed, or deposited in the laundry chute. His bed made, the dark red covers smoothed. His pillows beaten and fluffed, his study desk freshly polished, the glass on the windows clear. On his bed sat gilt decorated card, presumably an invitation of sorts. He ignored it and threw his bag in top of it, hiding it from his sight.  
  
He pulled off his jacket, letting it slide to the floor. He regretted the maid's perfection, wishing that something in his room were the same as he had left it this morning.  
  
He sighed into he leather desk chair, his eyes falling on a picture frame. Three faces stared back. One face was a mixture of the first two. The woman's eyes, the man's jaw, but neither ones smile. The young boy's face he didn't recognize. The smiles were fake, plastered on; right on the flashes cue.  
  
Tristan stared at the older man's face. When was the last time he saw him? Three months? 6? He'd lost count. Off closing a business deal by no doubt. Another success to add to the DuGrey name. Chasing after some young, sensual European slut perhaps? He massaged his neck, the muscles there tightly coiled, springs with no release.  
  
He made his way to the bathroom. Flicking on a switch he noticed fresh towels and an immaculate basin. Twisting the taps to the bath, he watched as the hot water churn in the large bath. Adding some aromatherapy salts, he unbuttoned his shirt, the white undershirt soon following.  
  
He heard a noise from outside, the sound coming through his open window. It sounded like a car door being closed, a woman's laugh rang shrilly. He stepped over to the window, his athletic form hidden by the strong tree. The green foliage wafted around the frame, disguising the window from outside.  
  
The woman who had stepped into this room this morning was standing by the silver Mercedes, her head thrown back in a hollow laugh. He watched as she leaned in and placed a kiss on the driver's lips, boldly, without a care in the world. Tristan turned away, walking back to the bathroom. He undid his belt buckle and left a trail of socks, shoes, and pants, dropped haphazardly on the floor.  
  
Tristan turned the taps off, sliding gingerly into the hot water. He lay there, watching the steam rise in silence, vainly trying to erase the memory of the scene that he just witnessed from his mind. It wasn't the first time his mother had had an affair. What else was she to do in the long periods his father flew around the world, surrounded by beautiful women. No man is a saint, least of all his father. And every time he came back, lies would mount, each suspecting the other's actions, but oblivious to the other's knowledge.  
  
He sunk further into the bath, his entire body submerged. He closed his eyes, the water surrounding his head, muting the sounds of the outside world. The pipes in the wall creaked faintly and he lay there, unconsciously holding his breath in the warm cocoon. He ignored the warning bells ringing in his ears, which screamed at him, his body crying for oxygen. He wondered what it would be like to float along, spun in warmth and the muted peacefulness the only sound.  
  
A knock on the bathroom door and a distorted, "Master DuGrey? Dinner is being served in 5 minutes" filtered through the water. Tristan sat up, gasping for air, and he called to Alfred who was patiently waiting at the door.  
  
"Thankyou Alfred" he heard light footsteps walk away. Hoisting himself out of the bath, he reached for a towel. Looking in the mirror, he saw his skin was tinged red, the blood rushing to the skin, the heat drawing it out. He toweled his head; the fronds of blonde clumps reaching that tousled look. He tossed it to the side, landing in a damp heap. Wrapping a fresh towel around his lower body he walked to his room, opening the closet doors to his extensive wardrobe. Clothes lined the walls, packed, all made of expensive materials, label names screeched at him, placed starkly on the cloth, some of it never worn.  
  
Tristan pulled a pair of jeans off a hanger, freshly pressed and a long sleeved red sweater. He shut the door to the objects reminding him of his ever-present wealth. He slid the jeans and the sweater over his cotton boxers and undershirt, stuffed his socked feet into sneakers and clipped on his watch.  
  
He stepped lightly down the stairs, making his way to the dining room. A lady sat there, at the far end, still dressed in her business suit from the morn, her lips still stained red. She was reading the newspaper, the fine china plates positioned perfectly on the places.  
  
His mother didn't look up when he entered. He sat down at his place, wriggling uncomfortably in the chair.  
  
"Good day?" she asked absent-mindedly, picking up her fork.  
  
"Fine" he returned, equally absent mindedly, knowing that she really didn't care. He picked up his fork, and shifted his food around the plate, feigning interest. She looked up.  
  
"You're not eating. Is the chicken not cooked?" She made to order another serving. He waved his hand.  
  
"No, no, It's fine. I'm just not hungry" he managed a smile, loathing the fakeness.  
  
The phone rang shrilly in the other room, the sound penetrating the thick silence. His mother rose from her seat to answer it. Tristan was left at the table alone, his mother's voice filling his ears. He heard the smooth voice greet the person on the other end, making the usual chitchat. He shifted away, walking to the library, searching comfort in the large collection of books, ranging from novels created thousands of years ago to newly published works.  
  
He sank into the large chair, the darkness of outside seeping through the open window to where he sat. His eyes traced the collection of books, a collection that has taken years to create, shelves empty, waiting for more. His mother's voice sounded down the hall, her footsteps moving closer.  
  
"Tristan should be around. I'm sure he'd love to talk to you." The person on the other end reeled off words, his ears deaf to them.  
  
"And how is your business contract going darling?" her tone was laced with sweetness. It was his father, and she was, searching for him, so that he could have the chance to engage in mindless conversations. If I haven't had enough for today, he thought rebelliously.  
  
Tristan hastily rose from his seat, and made his way to the door at the far end. He silently opened it and closed it with extra precaution. He slipped down the corridor, his path twisting back. He grabbed his keys from the front foyer table and headed to the visitors lounge. He opened a window and climbed out of it, landing on already moist grass. The autumn was drawing to a close, the chill of winter nights were dominating more and more, the icy fingers of frost creeping into the greenery, curling, it's grip getting stronger and stronger.  
  
Mrs. DuGrey pushed open the door to the library, it was empty. She heard an all too familiar car engine roar down the drive. She stood at the window, the silver Jaguar speeding, leaving the grounds with unmistakable haste. The voice on the other end was never ceasing, the phony sentimentality rubbing against the grain. She sighed and sat down, watching the lights fade, wishing herself, like the car, leaving this place.  
  
  
  
A.N: Like a flower, I need some source to thrive.so review!! 


	4. Chapter Four: Generosity

Author's Note: Still plodding along, writing some, discarding other stuff. I had no idea that writing fic is exhausting! Please review, I'm sure that you guys all know how good it is to get reviews on your crummy little chapters.  
  
Tristan planted his foot, the car screeching out of the drive, accelerating down the highway without thought. He drove in the blue darkness, his headlight's beams. He drove aimlessly, without destination, his goal to reach someplace quiet, where there were no painful memories, no superficial laughing faces, just - quiet.  
  
The car turned left, turned a right. All the roads looked familiar. He drove on wanting to find a path that he did not recognize, a place where he wouldn't be Tristan DuGrey, the one and only son, heir to the DuGrey fortune - but a nameless face, where nobody would remember him the next day. A smaller, less trafficked road was leading onto the left, looking infinitely more inviting than the large highway. Tristan twitched his flicker and turned onto it. The occasional headlight cast a pure white light on his pale face. The road came to an end, a fork. Left or right? He turned right again, driving on.  
  
A large billboard accosted him, "Welcome to Stars Hollow". Tristan drove on, his mind not piecing the two together. The street was littered with people, a recital taking place. Young children, the elderly, couples. He felt envious of all, the children had their entire lives in front of them, the elderly with wisdom and the couples with.love. He tore his eyes off one particular couple, they oblivious to the young boy staring jealously at them. He drove on searching for a quiet spot. A small park was up ahead, deserted, the streets standing in cool silence, the majority of people down at the center.  
  
He stopped the car, and stumbled out, his legs cramped from his long, aimless drive. He walked to the swings, his expensive sneakers glistening with the moisture. Tristan stopped and sat on one of the wooden swings, engravings streaked across it. He gripped the cold chain, his feet scuffling on the ground, the swing shifting slightly. He hung his head back, staring up at the stars. They seemed so close, so close he could reach up and pluck one off the inky sheet, holding the warm light in the palm of his hand. He dropped his head, reality kicking in. He had a life. Life where stars were millions of miles away, untouchable to humans. A life where anger and fury engulfed him, without relief. He dragged his feet in the sand, creating patterns.  
  
******  
  
Rory shut the white gate bordering the Kim's house.  
  
"Thanks for coming over." Lane stood on the other side, her glasses perched on her pert nose.  
  
"Not a problem. See you tomorrow after noon?" Rory pulled her coat tighter.  
  
"Oh, yes! Bold and the Beautiful return!" Lane squealed in delight, her hair blowing madly.  
  
"Lane Kim! Come inside this instant! You'll fall ill." The bellows of her mother reached their ears. Lane's face screwed up.  
  
"Gotta go. My mother thinks that I'm a consumptive nature. This is why she wants me to marry a doctor, or become one. Either way, she wins." Rory smiled wryly.  
  
"See you" Lane called over he shoulder as she hurried into the house. Rory turned and started making her way down the street, intending to reach home before she was blown away. Clad only in jeans, a long sleeved turtleneck sweater and her coat, the wind cut through her, chilling her to the bone. She quickened her pace, forcing her numb feet to move briskly.  
  
Rory stilled when she saw the familiar outline of a car. She frowned. What is he doing up here? And at this time? She checked her watch. 10:46 pm. Her eyes squinted to see it he was seated in the car, vision strained. It was empty. She looked up, searching the immediate surrounds for the car's owner. There he was, sitting on one of the swings, his shoulders stooped, as if he had a great weight on them. He looked surprisingly small, not the strong athlete profile that was boasted at school. Without thinking, she walked towards him, her mind forming senseless words. She shook them out of her head, their meanings useless. Instead, she asked the question that was the most obvious.  
  
"Tristan? What are you doing here?" he jumped slightly, her voice floating from behind him. Rory? How did she know - then his mind clicked. Rory lived in Star Hollow, the park was in Star Hollow. It's only natural that Rory would be walking past the park at 11 at night. He cursed silently, kicking himself for his carelessness. He'd let himself get lost in his thoughts, the outside world had lost all meaning. He pulled the visor up.  
  
"Jeez Mary, you almost scared the crap out of me." Tristan twisted around, his eyes meeting hers. She stood in the moonlight, in the deserted park, the recital's commotion dying in the background, the residents retiring.  
  
"What are you doing here?" she persisted.  
  
"To see you of course. School just isn't enough." Came his lighthearted response, the habitual grin plastered on his face, expecting an icy remark.  
  
"Oh." She came around and sat on the other swing. He looked up at the sky again.  
  
"Nice night huh?" he remarked, his breath making condensation droplets in the air.  
  
"You didn't answer my question" Rory looked at him, her face turned. Tristan dropped his head, swiveling it to look at hers. Looking into those eyes he knew that she didn't believe his given response. He sighed, the visor slipping down.  
  
"Just wanted to drive, escape things for a while, what with finals and all. I had forgotten that you lived here, I - you must think that I'm some crazy stalker." Tristan felt like an insect under inspection.  
  
"No" she replied, her eyes never wavering. "I don't think that you're a stalker, and I don't think that finals is your problem." She remembered that chilling look in Biology.  
  
He smiled wanly, regretting her ability to read into things, but somehow welcoming the fact that she cared enough to do it.  
  
"Yeah, well, I felt that I needed a change. I didn't really want to be in my house at the moment." He grimaced, his mother's superficial laugh replaying in his head.  
  
"Oh" Rory didn't know what to say. A few moments of awkward silence passed.  
  
"Why?" the one syllable word, but the start of a speech that would take years to say. He couldn't even comprehend why he was spilling to her. Would she understand?  
  
"I don't feel comfortable in my house at the moment." I don't feel comfortable any of the time, he muttered to himself. Rory shuddered. Imagine not being comfortable in your own home. Her house was her solace, her escape from school, Paris, the snobbery, the social classes - Tristan? No, not anymore. She looked at him again, a wave of compassion flooding her.  
  
"Cold?" Tristan noticed her convulse.  
  
"No, but you are" she reached out and touched his hand, holding onto the chain.  
  
"Why don't you come back to mine for a while? Have some coffee?" Rory offered hastily, the words stumbling over each other, forgetting the fact that they had to get up at 6:30 in the morning for school the next day. He stared incredulously.Rory, offering him entrance to her domain. Out of pity? Most likely. Still, it was better that freezing to death out here or going back to that cold mansion that he refused to call home. He smiled uneasily accepting her offer. He felt slightly uncomfortable, wondering if he'd made the right decision. Her own smile assured him. She rose from the swing, the chains clinking. She made her way to his silver Jaguar, silently inviting him to follow.  
  
His car smelt of leather, and a light trace of his cologne. She sniffed it in, taking note on the way he eased the car onto the road.  
  
"Left...right - the house with the brown jeep at the front." Tristan quietly complied, the indicator flicking on and off. The light was on in the lounge room, Lorelai was still up. Probably waiting for her to come home. Still, she was glad that her mother was still awake, her habit to babble would surely keep the conversation going. He switched the car off, opening the door. What are you doing Rory? Well, it was too late now, she couldn't just tell him to leave. Rory got out of the car, walking on the worn path, leading to the house. What if there's clothes lying around? Some underwear? A faint colour flushed her face, remembering the time Dean had dropped by unexpectedly, a hot pink G-string tossed casually on the sofa. It was a playful present that he mother had brought her, whilst away on a business convention. Most mothers get their offspring t-shirts, or a new CD, but she carted home a G-string. Or what if he thought her house cheap? Small? Messy? Messy it was even by her standards. So - oh God. Rory pushed open the front door, unlocking it with her keys.  
  
"Mom?" Rory called out. They could hear loud thumps. She frowned and looked at Tristan.  
  
"I warn you, my mother is the best mom out there, and my best friend, but if you're not used to her, she's a little intimidating." Rory took off her coat.  
  
He listened some more, the thumps interrupted with a painful "Ow!" and muffled obscenities. Rory followed the vibrations into the lounge room - her mother standing on the coffee table, in her pajamas, one foot on the chair by the fire. She looked up when her daughter entered.  
  
"Mom, what are you doing?"  
  
Lorelai was panting from the exertion. "I'm trying to make one circuit around the lounge room without touching the floor, but I keep on failing on the right corner, I think we need a second t.v." she wiped of slight perspiration from her forehead.  
  
"Hmmm, no, I think you just need to get off the coffee table before you break your ankle." Tristan stood silently behind Rory, his eyes hungrily devouring the contents of the room, studying the lamps, the photo arrangement on the mantelpiece. Rory cleared her throat.  
  
"Um, Mom, this is Tristan" Tristan stepped out of the shadows, into the glow of the living room's light, Lorelai seeing him for the first time. The look that passed over her face was comical, first shocked, then embarrassed for her dress, or lack of. But she shrugged it off within seconds and extended her hand.  
  
"Tristan. Pleased to meet you, I assume that you are the same Tristan that is the star in some of Rory's most interesting stories?" Lorelai smiled at him.  
  
"Ah, maybe." He eagerly responded, his face breaking out into a smile.  
  
"Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?" Lorelai offered, mentally calculating what and if there was anything on the cupboards.  
  
"Sure" Lorelai smiled and looked pointedly at Rory, her eyes commanding her to follow. Rory followed obediently, leaving Tristan seated on the couch.  
  
"Okay, feeling sorry for a guy is one thing, but bringing him home to meet me late at night is another thing. Are you dating?" Lorelai asked in a hushed whisper, opening the cupboard, reaching for mugs.  
  
"No. No!" Rory shook her head vehemently "He'd driven to the park around the corner, and I saw him there on the way home from Lane's - as too impulsive wasn't I?" Rory groaned, looking at her mother.  
  
"Well, yeah - why did you invite him?"  
  
"He had that look again"  
  
"The look?"  
  
"You know."  
  
"No, I don't otherwise I would be able to understand what you are saying by saying something like 'Yes, Rory, I do understand' "  
  
"The look! I was telling you about at Luke's? Remember?" Rory filled the pot at the sink. "Oh, that look."  
  
"He was telling me about how he didn't want to be in his house at the moment.and that look! And I didn't know what to say - and - oh I'm not making sense am I?" Rory frowned in confusion.  
  
"No, you're making perfect sense. You're lucky that I had decided not to put a facemask on tonight, other wise your new pal here would have run away screaming. He's kinda cute too. No wonder all the girly girls chase him."  
  
"Okay, hush now," Rory hissed "He can probably hear you."  
  
Lorelai picked up two mugs and stepped to the lounge, Rory on her heels.  
  
Tristan sat on the couch, thumbing through a photo album, looking at snap shots of a giggly baby, a innocent 6 year old, a fresh faced teen. He stopped at a picture of Rory in her Chilton uniform, presumably her first day. His memory flashed back to her first day, the first words, the smirks, the open offers. Remembering the pleasant surprise when she rejected his advances, looking at him as one would a rodent. He no longer saw her as a conquest, though there was no deny that she was, at first. Instead he saw her as a person that he wanted to value, have meaningful conversations with. He admired the way she carried herself, running with the others but not of them. The fluttering crowds, the jostling girls, all vying for his attention faded in comparison. He remembered the horror he felt when he realized that she may turn her back to him for the last time, but he hoped against hope, clinging to the possibility that they may be friends one day, however distant it may be. He couldn't stop the innuendo-laced words, the leering glances, it was his only way to communicate. But he kicked himself every time words flew from his mouth, regretting the meanings, wanting to freeze them in mid air and change them.  
  
He flipped the page, a picture of her in a blue dress presented before him. Her smile wide, the skin glowing with excitement. The infamous scene materialized before his eyes, the tension he felt standing inches away from Dean, the silence in the room so thick, you could have cut it cleanly in two with a knife. He couldn't remember why he did that, making an embarrassing scene like that. Perhaps it was the fact that he saw the happy couple shifting on the dance floor, sharing a private moment, tuned out to the noise around them, all attention on the other. He was jealous, jealous of the closeness, the unaccustomed feeling of another having what he really wanted, and a goal unattainable, beyond his reach. He didn't see the girl Rory, or the boy Dean, rather he saw the picture of true love, not a fake superficial love, but an authentic emotion. All he had ever experienced was the feelings of carnal lust, the uncontrollable need to search for real affection.leaving him cold.  
  
Those emotions translated into dislike for Dean, burning in his barren heart, hating the dark haired boy for holding onto the gift so tightly in the palm of his hand, in fear of losing it, but loose enough to taunt others. He felt mad at himself, not at Dean, his fury unleashing on himself. He pushed him, or so it seemed, but in his mind, he was pushing himself away - Dean's 'You will not come near her ever again' ringing clear in his head. The words stilled him, his fury subsiding, doused in the truthfulness of the words. Maybe he would never get the chance of experiencing real appreciation, love. It was like fate telling him that his chance was lost.  
  
He shivered and quickly turned again. Pictures of Rory and Lorelai, Rory and Luke, Rory and Lane, just Rory. A dress that reminded him of something. Tristan swallowed dryly. The kiss. A faint blush rose to his cheeks, feeling ashamed of his impulsive action. He felt remorse for doing it to this very day, or so he thought he would. But things had changed. Rory accepted him, their relationship moving to a different level. He was convinced that she would loathe him even more, expel him forever, but he couldn't be more far from the truth. An awkward friendship was in its first tentative steps, testing the boundaries, looking always to the future, not at the past.  
  
Lorelai walked in Rory closely following. He sealed the album with a snap and placed it back on the coffee table.  
  
"Thanks" Tristan accepted the mug that she offered him.  
  
"Sorry if it's too strong," Lorelai bit back a laugh at the strained face before her "Rory and I are so used to it like this, we forget about the outsiders"  
  
"Whoa" he spluttered the harsh taste spilling around in his mouth.  
  
"You like?" Rory grinned.  
  
"Ugh, sure" he swallowed with difficulty, placing the mug on the table, putting as much space between him and the potent drink as possible.  
  
The three of them sat in the lounge room talking, the fire crackling and the wind ruthlessly wailing around the roof. Tristan felt oddly settled, his mind slowing down to an easy pace. He listened with interest to the conversation, often the audience to the two bickering with each other, arguing over petty matters.  
  
"So are you ready and freaking out for finals Tristan?" Lorelai turned to him.  
  
"Yes.but I think that Rory is stressing out more than me" he smirked, glancing at her. "No, you've mistaken me for Paris" Rory lied  
  
Th other two stared at her, their eyes disbelieving.  
  
"Okay fine. I am a little."  
  
"Pffft. A little? All I hear about is finals in 40 days, 20 days, 15 days, 6 days.you do realize that my head is going to implode? I even dream about you telling me that there are finals in 6 days and then, to my horror, I wake up and there you are, calling in my ear 'Finals in 6 days!' "  
  
Tristan chuckled, the visual there. Lorelai drained her cup, and glanced at the clock. 11:33pm. She stifled a yawn. Tristan saw that it was his cue to leave. He rose from his seat, reluctantly, wanting to stay. He doesn't want to leave, thought Lorelai with some surprise.  
  
"No, why don't you stay for the night Tristan?" he paused, checking to see if he had heard right.  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Why don't you stay?" Lorelai picked up the empty mugs, carrying them into the kitchen "You and Rory can leave a little earlier on the morning and drive to Hartford, pick up your uniform and head to school." She finished yelling from the kitchen  
  
Tristan looked at Rory, his eyes questing.  
  
"What is it with your Mom?" he asked in a hushed whisper. Rory grinned at him.  
  
"She likes you." She quirked an eyebrow, looking at him seriously.  
  
Lorelai poked her head around the corner where she was washing the dishes, her voice sounding far away.  
  
"That is, if you want to"  
  
Do I want to? Tristan chewed his lip for a moment. Two choices. Go back to that graveyard, where thousands of skeletons were hidden, decaying, where the wind was not kind, nor the refection in the mirror. Or stay here, in this strangely comforting house, where everything was the epitome of belonging, comfort.  
  
"Sure, I'd love that," he called back, within 5 seconds. He turned back to Rory "That is, if it's ok with you" he said, apprehensively.  
  
Rory unfolded her legs and hopped off the couch, walking to a hall closet, her socked feet slipping noiselessly on the floor.  
  
"It's late, it's cold, and it's a long drive to Hartford, it's logical for you to stay. Besides, my Mom's word is law." Rory's last words were muffled by a shower of blankets that came crashing down upon her head, her energetic tug having disastrous consequences.  
  
"Ahhh! Help!" she clutched her head, her mind spinning from the impact. Tristan grabbed two blankets that were flung on the floor, helping her up.  
  
"You alright?" he asked nonchalantly.  
  
"Fine, cept, I'm seeing two of you"  
  
"Two of me? That can't be a bad thing" he grinned  
  
"Ha ha" Rory scooped up the rest in her arms and walked back to the lounge, dropping the blankets on the end. "Bathroom's down there, kitchen's down there if you get hungry or thirsty, feel welcome to raid our refrigerator, even though there isn't much in it bar some really old pizza or chocolate spread - but what good is chocolate spread without toast?" Rory paused "Anyway, I think that's it."  
  
"It's good for body art" Lorelai came out of the kitchen, smiling mischievously. She sighed warily and scratched her head.  
  
"Rory's given you the run down, so we might as well hit the sack. See you in the morning kids." She leaned over and kissed Rory on the cheek. Tristan watched with envy the void in his heart cracking open a little deeper.  
  
"Night Tristan" Lorelai bounded up the stairs. The two watched her go, an odd silence filling the room.  
  
"You have the best mother, even if she's a bit weird. "Tristan was staring into space, his voice drifting like lost wood in a sea.  
  
"Thanks," A red warning sign flashed in front of her eyes, stopping Rory from making some idle comment, her mouth clamping shut. "Hey, do you want to call home? Just so you're parents don't worry." She offered half- heartedly. Tristan frowned slightly, his forehead creasing.  
  
"Nah, its not the first time I've done this."  
  
"Okay"  
  
The silence was horrible, the two standing at the opposite ends of the couch. Tristan's voice was tired, worn. Rory fidgeted her fingers tugging at one of the blankets, a loose thread irritating her.  
  
"So? Are you okay here? You know how to make a bed?" God. How lame! She thought wretchedly.  
  
"One question though. Where's your room? Just in case, y'know, I get cold, I could just snuggle in with you." The old Tristan was back, the cocky edge to his voice, smooth.  
  
"Get another blanket "Rory said sarcastically. She turned and headed out of the lounge, towards her room.  
  
Don't walk away from me! He cried inside, watching her retreat in pointed disgust. Too many people walk away from him, without a second thought, the protective wall rising another brick.  
  
"Night Rory" he called to her back, the tone of his voice pinging on another note. Something twitched in Rory's mind, instinct, discernment? Without thought she turned around, walked back to where he was standing and pressed her lips to his sunken cheek, lingering for a few seconds. Tristan was stunned by her actions, heat suffusing around the delicate spot, like a hot iron. It wasn't the first time he had been kissed, but this was one that was sincere, emotion carried through that one little touch of damp lips. It was innocent. She wasn't asking for anything from him, instead, she was giving.  
  
"Good night Tristan" and with that she turned and left, closing her bedroom door softly behind her.  
  
Tristan looked about the room, nothing but the sound of the dying fire crackling and the wind whispering at the windows for company. A sigh escaped his lips, a small sigh of satisfaction twisting his face. He pulled off his sweater and his shoes and settled on the couch, his eyes gazing at the ceiling. He didn't feel tired.only an odd sense of fulfillment, a sensation that was alien to him. There was no expectations placed upon him, not critical eyes watching his every move - no judgmental thoughts, ready to size you up by society's standards. None of it, only clear eyes, sincere words the pure smiles.  
  
******  
  
Tristan lay there, time having no meaning, the clock hands crawling down the face, wasting the hours away. And he lay there, stretched out, his hands clasped behind his head, focused, but spaced.  
  
A light flashed upstairs, and a door-cracked open. Lorelai's shadow slunk across the wall, tiptoeing down the stairs. She walked with little noise, and she turned to check the visitor that slumbered on her sofa. Only he wasn't slumbering as she had imagined. Blue crystals stared back at her, bright, with no sleep clouds. Had he even slept? She wondered idly.  
  
"Can't sleep huh?" she whispered, coming over to the couch.  
  
"No. Don't want to" he responded quietly.  
  
"Oh? Why's that"  
  
"Savoring the moment." A honest answer  
  
"Huh. It's 4 in the morning and he's savoring the moment." She smiled. Lorelai sat down on the edge of the sofa. He said nothing in reply.  
  
"Hey - I don't really know you, well, I don't know you at all, but I just want you to know that you are very welcome here. If you ever need some time out, swing by sometime. Rory's a good kid, she's a lot like me in ways, but in the most important, sensible areas she's not, which is a good thing. But honestly, I'm extending a invite to you - if at any time you need somebody to talk to, or just an unfamiliar area, feel free. "Lorelai paused, studying the image before her. She pondered whether or not she should go further. Tristan propped up on his elbows and looked directly at her.  
  
"Why are being so nice to me?" he asked bluntly. Lorelai stopped and thought for a moment, figuring out what to say  
  
"I grew up in Hartford." She went on, trusting her instincts. "And I always struggled with society, lesson after lesson in deportment, the expectations, the ways that you were put on a box. In ways, it was tougher on the girls - no matter how hard I tried to communicate with my parents, they didn't want to hear it, or couldn't understand. And I was suffocated," Lorelai paused for breath.  
  
Suffocated. He knew how that felt. Tristan suddenly saw her in new eyes. She knew. She understood. "And then Rory happened. She was the best thing that happened to me. The best. Being a teenager is hard, and it's even harder if you've got no one to talk to. So, if you ever need to talk, let me know." Lorelai rose up, and patted his leg, watching him carefully.  
  
"Thanks" Tristan shuddered at the eerie prickle at the back of his neck.  
  
"Try and get some sleep, finals in a week" 


	5. Chapter Five: Defiance

Disclaimer: See first page  
  
Author's Note: You may be wondering over the point of this fic. I wouldn't have a clue myself. You'd think that, at chapter 5, the author would have an idea. Heh.  
  
Rory opened her bedroom door, dressed in her uniform, her long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Tristan sat at the kitchen table, reading an old issue of Cosmopolitan, an empty mug before him. "Morning" she said cheerfully, placing her bag on the table, gathering up some papers and text books.  
  
"Morning" he replied, pushing his chair back. "Your mother came tearing down her this morning, switched the coffee machine on, emptied half a coffee bag into it and was wailing on about her black hand bag. I just sat here, mute"  
  
"Wise move in those situations. She's dangerous in the morning - just wait..one, two, three.." Rory stood still, her ears straining for thudding on the stairs.  
  
"Rory?! Where's my black handbag?" Lorelai's voice floated down, her feet pounding on the stairs.  
  
"Isn't it hanging by your brown coat on the rack in the entrance? Rory called.  
  
Lorelai rushed into the kitchen, abruptly took the mug out of Rory's hands and took a swig.  
  
"Nooo, that's my other black bag, the one with the long strap. I'm looking for the short strap one."  
  
"Here," Rory picked up the handbag that sat on an empty chair, the object hidden from view. Lorelai snatched the bag from her hands.  
  
"Thank you! Rory, what would I do without you?" Lorelai stuffed her purse inside.  
  
"Shrivel up and die, most likely" Rory smiled  
  
"Nice and positive for a quarter to seven in the morning! Now, I gotta meet Sookie early, she's making me breakfast and I'm finishing late, so I'll be home around 7:30, okay?" Lorelai crammed her feet into some shoes and grabbed her coat.  
  
"I'll have pizza ready" Rory smiled, planting a good bye kiss on her mother's cheek.  
  
"Atta girl!" Lorelai called over her shoulder, the door slamming behind her. Rory turned back to Tristan, taking in his dumbfounded expression on his face.  
  
"Wow. That was an interesting experience, Did she even notice me?" Tristan laughed leaning against the sink.  
  
"In about 15 minutes, yes." Rory grinned, zipping up her bag. She checked her wristwatch, blowing a stray hair from her mouth. "I think we better be moving too, if we want to get to your uniform before school." She struggled her backpack onto her slight shoulders, teetering down the hall. Tristan rolled his eyes and walked into lounge room, grabbing his keys. Then they were gone, leaving a trail of warm air, smelling of a mixture of cologne and clean hair in their wake  
  
******  
  
"Oh my" Rory stared up at the grey mansion before her, closing the car door. "That is a very large house" Tristan couldn't help but smile.  
  
"You get used to it" he lied. Tristan watched her, amused by the way she craned her neck and flickered her eyes over the structure.  
  
"Do you ever got lost?" the innocent girl questioned, standing on the front steps. Yes, thought Tristan bitterly, but flashed a smile.  
  
"Noooo.you've never been to my house before hey?" He paused at the stairs.  
  
"You call this a house? It's bigger than my grandparents.and don't you dare say what you're going to say."  
  
"Should I take advantage of the fact that you've never been to my house before?" Tristan smiled widely, his head cocked to one side. Rory rolled her eyes.  
  
"You never stop do you? It's 7:50 in the morning, we're outside and you just can't help yourself." "Blame yourself, seeing you in the sunshine gets me thinking of."  
  
"Stop" Rory commanded and turned him around by the shoulders, forcefully propelling him to the door. "Be a gentleman and show a lady in. Do you have a library?"  
  
"Ooh, Rory. I didn't know you were this strong"  
  
The door swung open, Alfred appearing. Rory and Tristan paused, Rory staring blankly at the old man, with a prim face.  
  
"Good morning Master DuGrey, you're just in time for breakfast."  
  
"No thanks" Tristan shifted inside, depositing his keys on the table.  
  
"And who might you be?" Alfred extended his wrinkled hand to Rory. Rory blinked at him in the sunlight, dazed at the aristocratic man standing before her. Tristan rubbed his nose, ignoring the giddy tickle to laugh. "Rory Gilmore, Alfred.Alfred, Rory Gilmore." Tristan waved his hand lightly.  
  
"Pleasure to meet you," he made a quaint bow "May I take your bag? Your coat? Would you like some refreshment?"  
  
Rory looked slightly bewildered. "Oh, erm, no. Thank you" she added on as an after thought, clutching nervously at her bag straps, almost afraid that he'd suck them off.  
  
"As you wish," the butler closed the heavy door and continued his way to the dining room.  
  
"Madam, Master DuGrey is home," Alfred promptly said in the entrance, addressing the hidden patrons. But by the sickly smell of perfume, he could tell who it was in there anyway. There's only one other person who reeks like that, he thought, with some venom.  
  
"Tristan?" The blonde boy grimaced, the muscles in his back tensed, the polished voice reaching for him. He stepped into the dining room, his sullen eyes lighting on two people seated at the table, instead of one. He couldn't say that he was surprised. The second person sat in a chair, clothed in a robe of his father's, his dark, exotic eyes melding with his olive skin. He looked youthful, perhaps in his late twenties.neatly cut hair, with an air of smugness, a self-confidence that Tristan noticed immediately, and loathed. It didn't matter who he was. He was just a face. Another empty sheath, with a brooding mood, which spread throughout the house, relentless.  
  
"Mother." He said tightly, staring at the stranger seated at the table, coolly drinking coffee. The boy stood there sullenly, frozen on the thick carpet, the space between them miles and miles.  
  
"Tristan, this is Eli." His mother broke the silence, ashamed of her son's lack of manners.  
  
"Eli? Is that short for Elijah?" Tristan chopped out each word, his muscles tightening to an unbearable degree.  
  
"Actually, yes." The dark haired man ignored the cutting edge to Tristan's voice, gazing insolently into the boy's eyes. Tristan's face didn't crack, the two males watching each other, testing the air. He looked at his mother, sitting like a satisfied cat at the head of the oak table, preening. Anger swirled and bottled inside of him, lashing at his insides, reckless. The boy's blue orbs turned a darkened color, dangerously flashing. Who is he?! They screamed with intensity, demanding, but already knowing the sick truth.  
  
Rory stood behind Tristan's tall frame, hiding in the shadows. She was curious. Curious at this life that was so different to her own, the people, the air, the mentality. The paintings that lined the walls, the thick carpet that crushed under your feet, the marble, the heavy gilt frames. All held her in a sense of awe, a captive in the world of rich.  
  
Rory inquisitively peered past Tristan's board shoulder into the dining room. More gold. And look at that oak table! It must weigh a ton. Rory's eyes finally landed on the patrons, seated like a majestic couple, at the furthest end of the table. She swallowed quickly, closing her open mouth, and flushing slightly.  
  
"Good morning," she said awkwardly, twisting her feet nervously, four eyes turning to her. Tristan recoiled. His mind was crying out, wanting his arms to gently propel Rory from this scene, erase her from the sickening act. He knew what was coming. Sure enough, the sugar laced voice rung out, with painful clarity.  
  
"Good morning," Mrs. DuGrey placed her coffee cup meticulously down on the saucer. "And who are you?" his mother flickered her eyes over Rory's shape, as a snake would use it's tongue.  
  
"Rory. Rory Gilmore," Rory stepped into the dining room properly, eagerly stepping into the light. Like an innocent lion cub, she was in plain view of the predators.  
  
Tristan stood there, mute, still frozen. He hated the small talk, the polite chitchat. And here he was, standing there, locked in some cage with some woman who went under the name of 'mother' and the prick that has slept with her last night. And worst of all, he had put Rory in line of fire, dropping her into the torrential waterfall with no safety vest.  
  
"Rory. Pleased to meet you," Mrs. DuGrey's pout stretched into a slight smile, picking up her coffee again. "Are you in any relation to Emily and Richard Gilmore?" Tristan cringed. Here it comes. The inevitable look into the family history, the prying into the scandals, the judgement. But by that look on his mother's face, it was safely presumed that she had already formed an opinion.  
  
"Yes, they're my grandparents, do you know them?" Rory replied politely, frowning at change in her facial expression.  
  
"Yes, actually I do. Tristan? Would you like some coffee?" she ceased conversation with Rory.  
  
He hated himself for exposing Rory like this, to the superficial behavior, the deep mire. Some things are never meant to be seen by the innocent.  
  
"If you'll excuse us," Tristan snapped out of his reverie, pulling Rory by the arm, abruptly yanking her from the room, her form disappearing around the corner. He dragged her down the hall, clutching her stiff arm.  
  
"Ow! Tristan you're hurting me!" Rory wriggled in his iron hold, trying to wrench her arm free.  
  
"Sorry." He said contritely and dropped her arm immediately. He pushed open the door to the library. "Here. Have a browse" Tristan swept his arm of the room. The room was something that he took for granted. Shrugged off without a glance. A hideout. He did not realize the magic, the euphoria that would engulf him if he only let it  
  
"Wow. That is a lot of books!" Rory stepped through the door, her jaw dropping. Her eyes gleamed, hungrily devouring the rows of books, neatly packed in, one after another. Volumes of philosophy and history was never ending, thick, musty binders sending her into dizzy excitement.  
  
"Yeah, whatever."  
  
Tristan's tone penetrated her mind. She looked at him sharply, watching his face.  
  
"I'm going to go get my uniform," he met her eyes. Whoops. Mistake. Rory stared at him, frozen in the middle of the room, her eyes searching his, noticing his harsh tone. Tristan swallowed nervously, loathing way that her eyes searched his, looking past the clear-cut profile into his very soul. He tore his eyes away, looking down at the floor.  
  
"Don't run off." He said brusquely and with that, he turned on his heel and left the room. Rory sighed at his disappearing back, watching it go and hide behind the thick oak of the ornate door, waiting for the time when he would open up.  
  
Tristan jogged up the stairs briskly, directing his feet to his room. He tore off his creased clothes dumping them in a puddle at his feet and roughly pulled out his uniform from the closet, his numb fingers moving with slow speed. Go faster! He urged himself. His mind was thinking of one thing. Get out of here as soon as possible  
  
"Who is she?" his mother appeared at his side. He couldn't say that he was surprised. He rolled his eyes, and jerked his shoes from the shoe rack that hung at the side, the blackness gleaming and winking wickedly at him. Some maid had sat there, polishing and cleaning them to a fine sheen, and all he wanted to do was rub them in dust.  
  
"Who's Eli?"  
  
"Answer the question"  
  
"What number is he?" Tristan still faced the closet, his back to her. He pulled a crisp wife beater from the lower drawer and wriggled it over his head. The suffocating stench of her perfume swum up his nose, causing his mind to set off in a delirious spin. The words came out harshly, venting his fury.  
  
"Is it number eight? And how long is it going last? Until Dad comes home? That's is, if Dad even comes home." Tristan cut ruthlessly, buckling his pants.  
  
"Tristan, this is none of your business." She slammed the closet door shut, her hands biting into his bare arm, demanding his full attention. He dropped his shirt.  
  
"No, it's not my business. But what you do in this house effects me. And anything that effects me, I have a right to know about. You know, I wish that nothing you do effects me, it would make things so easier. But things aren't like that, so who is he? Huh?" he taunted, towering over her.  
  
"You could have been more polite." She stared back, trying to gain the upper hand. He stared at her incredulously. I made no impact on her. She can't even hear me. Tristan felt bitter seeds pop up in his heart, thriving on the hate, lapping up the rays of poison.  
  
"Why should I be polite?" he raised his voice at her, not believing the standards of the woman in front of him. "Just because he's the flavor of the month? Because he's a guest? They're not good enough reasons. Give me a reason to be polite." He jerked her hand away from the closet door, opening it again, picking up his shirt again.  
  
"How dare you. How dare you tell me how to run my life. I am an adult, your parent, and I do not have to check back with my seventeen-year-old son in everything I do. Do you think that I really care about what think? I thought I had brought you up better than that. And that Gilmore girl.what are you thinking?! At least I have taste." She spat back, heedlessly trampling on his swollen nerves with her sharp heels.  
  
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, facing the closet, containing his rage. Here she goes again, he thought bitterly, twisting the story around so that I'm to blame. He wanted to slam his clenched fist in the door, and watch the wood crumple. He turned around and faced her again.  
  
"You are unbelievable. So this is my fault? I'm not the one who's having an affair! And don't you start on Rory. She means more to me, than you ever will." And with cobra speed, a tanned hand flashed in the air, and came crashing down on the boy's jaw. Skin connected with skin with a loud slap, the blood rushing to the hot hand imprint, burning. Tristan bit down on his lip, the skin immediately swelling. The air between them was hazy with guilty tension, the fumes becoming thick, overtaking any rational thoughts.  
  
"I am your mother" she choked, her words barely restrained. "I deserve respect from you. And that's not what I am getting!" she paused, knowing that she was once again victorious. She took a deep breath, awaiting his mumbled apology.  
  
"Mother?" he flung bitterly, the word tasting foul in his mouth. He shook his head, his voice dangerously calm, quiet. "I don't see a mother when I look at you. I don't even recognise you. All I see is a selfish woman, intent on only pleasing herself, without a thought of anyone else. A mother sets a good example. A mother denies herself if there is even a hint of pain that could possibly be inflicted on their child. A mother acts responsible. A mother can be depended on. And I don't see that when I look at you." The woman before him gazed into her son's eyes, then laughed. She laughed cruelly, the sound grating on his already raw nerves.  
  
"Come back to the real world Tristan. No mother is like that. It's called a game. Don't you think that I don't know the real reasons for your father's long absence? I'm not a fool you know." She snorted. Instinctively, he turned away, pained. She was right. Her laughter echoed in his ears, hacking away at his words. A face flashed before his eyes, a familiar smile. Tristan turned back, looking at the perfectly made up face, wanting to re shape the features into another's, seek comfort in her eyes. He wanted to shake her, show her what she truly was. But that would never be, he thought ruefully.  
  
"No. There are such mother's, but women like you can never be one of them. I'm sick of your games." He said quietly, sorrowfully. He brushed past her and looped his tie in his fingers from the desk and left the room, leaving her behind. Tristan slowly walked down the stairs, taking deep breaths, wondering whether or not he had made any sense. He paused, and slung his tie around his neck, and made his way to the library.  
  
Upstairs, Mrs. DuGrey leaned against the closet door; her proud, arched back slumped. She rubbed her temples in a circular movement, feeling the blood pound. She looked around the room uncomfortably, feeling as sense of loss. She expelled a sigh, weary, but her resolve unchanged. For a second, she felt remorse. But it was gone like a flash, and she left the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
"Rory, let's go," Tristan cracked the library doors open.  
  
"Hmmm." Rory stood by the window, her hands holding leather bound book, her eyes reverently caressing the pages. He paused, watching her in her element, the black words the key to soul, the pleasure sprawled across her face. She practically skipped across the room, opening the doors wide and sucking him in with her hand. She pushed the open book to his nose.  
  
"Smell." She commanded, looking up at him, impetuously.  
  
He obligingly breathed in.  
  
"Mmm.musty?" he smiled lopsidedly, waiting for her passionate reaction, his face partially hidden in the book.  
  
"But isn't it a good musty? Its history, knowledge, passed on through generations." she pulled back the book, carefully turning the pages.  
  
Tristan's smile molded into a grin.  
  
"Of course. I love that smell" he lied, Rory oblivious to his mocking tone. "As much as I'd like to watch you all day get excited over books, we're going to be late if we don't move. And aren't you aiming for that perfect punctuality record?" he teased  
  
"Do we have to?" Rory looked crestfallen. He looked at her in mock surprise.  
  
"Are you telling me that you want to skip school? Well, I knew that I was irresistible, but I didn't think that my powers were strong enough to seduce Rory Gilmore!" She closed her book with a snap, his words having wakened her from her rapturous trance. She rolled her eyes, an all too familiar reaction to the majority of words aimed at her.  
  
"Let's go big head."  
  
******  
  
They sat in silence, Tristan slumped behind the wheel, concentrating on driving. Rory on the other hand, sat erect, staring out the window, her mind occupied with the events that had just passed. The meeting of his mother, the butler, the library. All if it was what she had expected, the feast for her eyes, the smells of plush and rich wafts of leather. Every piece of furniture and every centimeter of carpet screamed 'rich', but somehow, Tristan didn't fit in. ever since she had laid eyes on him, heard his voice, the expectation that he fitted in the 'rich preppy boy' puzzle was there. Today, it had shattered, and not without some noise. He looked too uncomfortable, too out of place to fit.  
  
Rory remembered his mother, the way his entire body had tensed when she called his name. And that dark skinned man. He wasn't how she had pictured his father; she was expecting fair hair and with the same haunting, intense blue eyes, as Tristan had, unless, of course...  
  
"Tristan, that wasn't your father was it?" Rory asked cautiously, still staring out the window, her eyes downcast. He flicked his eyes off the road and onto her, her head still turned away from him. He opened his mouth a couple of times, like a fish out of water, forming words to say.  
  
"No it wasn't" he finally stated simply, the words hanging in the air between them. The short distance between them crackled with tension, the hum of the car, quieting down to a slight vibration. One was processing the information, the other awaiting judgement. But it never came. He watched her for a few more seconds and she turned to hi sympathetically, her eyes seeking his. Instinctively he turned back to the road, but thankful for the brief gaze. Tristan felt irrevocably choked up, hot tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He wanted to crawl over the seat and curl up in her lap and dream away the pain, like a little boy, lost. She would understand. But he didn't. With some difficulty, he cleared his throat and shook the suspicious moisture from his eyes. Rory didn't miss one second of his actions, watching him carefully. She sighed and resumed her position, the trees whizzing by, feeling slightly sick.  
  
The car glided up the drive and he maneuvered skillfully into a spot, reserved exclusively for him. He leaned his head on the steering wheel, the leather imprinting patterns on his forehead, switching the car off. Rory still sat silently beside him. She unbuckled her car seat, the chinking of the metal reminding him that she was there.  
  
"Thanks for the ride" she said, wondering what else to say.  
  
"Not a problem," the boys head jerked up, unbuckling his seat also. "Shall we?" he gestured to the outside, students already walking by, staring quizzically into the car, trying to distinguish it's passengers. They opened doors in unison, the cold air hitting them in the face. The car alarm beeped and Tristan started to move off when Rory stopped him.  
  
"Tristan, your tie." She motioned to the loose silk dangling from his neck. Tristan dropped his books on the car in exasperation.  
  
"You wouldn't happen to have a mirror on you, by any chance?" he asked, feeling ridiculous.  
  
"Gee, you know, I left it in my other jacket" she smiled sarcastically. "Here" Rory reached up and took the two lengths in her hands, folding like a pro. Tristan looked around self consciously, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
"Why do I feel like a little boy?" he moaned, slightly embarrassed. Rory continued twisting and folding.  
  
"Hush, Tristan or you'll get a spanking." Rory stared up with an authoritative look on her face, her voice squeaky. He grinned, the words registering.  
  
"And what type of spanking are you talking of?" Rory's only answer was a none too sharp tug on the tie.  
  
"Okay! Sorry!" he choked, his throat squashed. He looked down at her hands. Small, white, soft. So different from another pair of hands that had often engaged in this act. Tristan's mind flew back, where the hands were larger, tanned and much more rough. A shrill voice was scolding him, yanking at his throat and dress jacket impatiently. His collar was stiff and starched, his hair painfully combed and set. The owner of the hands was relentless, pushing him forward to the crowds and the tall towers of adults smiling obligingly at him, expressing sugared comments such as "he's adorable" or "a smart looking lad" in plenty. He remembered the hate, the discomfort of being placed on a shelf, a prized trophy that his parents showed around, brazenly polished. The dizzying crowds, the smell of cigarette smoke, women's perfume. Their tribal scents that permeated the air and engulfed his senses.  
  
"There," Rory smoothed the tie down, bringing Tristan back to the present. "Good?"  
  
"Thanks," he adjusted his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. "Do I look properly dressed now?" he smiled at her. She returned his smile, handing his books to him.  
  
"Every bit" 


End file.
